Big News
by ZoneFiction
Summary: Sherlock receives some (unwelcome) news, and is unsure how to handle it, so he goes to John, who has always handled "people things" for him. A lighthearted quickie, with a Sherlock/Molly pairing, based off a tumblr request which inspired me.


John didn't know when exactly he had started pacing. He only knew he had been waiting at the park far longer than he should have for his punctual friend. Granted, Sherlock was not always considerate of others' time, but the urgent nature of his text message led John to believe...

Suddenly a familiar figure caught John's eye. _Finally._

John started toward Sherlock, who was striding purposefully in John's direction with a black cloud over his face. "Sherlock, thank God," John called, just before he reached his friend. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

Sherlock didn't stop, forcing John to quickly turn around and match his friend's pace. "Yes, John, I'm fine." The words spilled out of Sherlock's mouth so rapidly that John was unsure he had heard correctly.

"What about Molly?" John asked. Sherlock flinched, which landed worry in John's stomach like a rock. _Not Molly._ "Is she okay?"

Sherlock halted and John nearly ran into him. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and spun him around. The consulting detective's face was stony and his lips were pressed together tightly. "Sherlock, you need to talk to me!" John said forcefully. "I can't read your mind; what's happened to Molly? Is she hurt?"

Sherlock's stormy eyes frowned and darted to John. "Hurt? No, of course not. She's fine. She's back at the flat."

John sighed and released Sherlock's arm. "What's wrong, then? I thought you said this was urgent. Have you two had a row? Mary and I had plans…"

"A row? Why would I come to you if we'd had a row?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Because that's what friends…You know what? Never mind, Sherlock. Listen, if you're both fine, I've got to get going—"

"She's not hurt, she's pregnant, John!" It was Sherlock's turn to grab John's arm to keep him from walking away. His raised voice attracted a few curious glances from strangers.

John turned back to Sherlock and Sherlock released him. "Pregnant? Sherlock, that's…that's…Congra—"

"**_Don't!" _**Sherlock's eyes screwed shut."_Don't _say that infernal word or our friend the detective inspector may have a new case on his hands."

John paused. "…alright. I won't say it."

Sherlock studied him, growing increasingly agitated. "That's all? Is that all you have to say?"

"You told me not to say…"

"Yes, I know! Aside from that; do branch out. It would be immensely helpful if you would not be and idiot at this particular moment."

John raised an eyebrow. "You're upset."

"Yes, brilliant," Sherlock sneered, "Beautiful deduction."

"Did she not tell you or something? How long has she known?"

"This morning-she learned it this morning and she told me when I came in."

"Fine," John said, and paused. "…you'll forgive me if I don't see what you have to be upset about. Your wife is pregnant. You should…"

"Yes, John, _pregnant_! Which means, in all probability and likelihood, she will have a baby. That is all fine and perfect until the thing comes and we must figure out what to do with it."

"What to do with it?"

"Yes, John! What it is you people see in the process of reproduction is beyond me; what delight is there in learning that after nine long months one will be forced to endure another twenty years—at least—being entirely responsible for the well-being of another human? The charm of the entire ordeal is lost on me.

"And seeing as how my attachment to Molly is, unfortunately, unavoidable and almost definitely irreversible, I see no alternative for me. I am doomed to rear the thing."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment with wonder in his eyes. "…You're afraid."

"What?"

"You're afraid, aren't you? You're afraid of becoming a father."

"That's ridiculous. What have I to fear from an eight pound, mindless bundle of limbs and drool?"

"You tell me. You're the one who's…"

"I am _not_ afraid," Sherlock interrupted again. "You are not being particularly helpful, John." He whirled around and ran his hands over his face and through his dark hair.

"What do you want me to do?" John retorted.

"I don't _know_!" Sherlock whirled around. "You're the doctor; aren't you supposed to…I don't know, _fix_ things?" He gestured both hands aggressively toward John, then returned them to his curls.

"You're serious?"

"Frankly, I don't know what I am, John."

"Well, for one thing, you're an idiot. And for another, you're going to be a fine father."

"Damnit, John!" Sherlock punched the nearest thing, which happened to be a tree. "Don't say that! That's worse than congratu-bloody -lations!"

"Sherlock! Are you alright?" John was looking at his friend's bloodied knuckles. Sherlock put his right hand in his left and grimaced in obvious pain.

"No, I'm not, John! You of all people are not allowed to say that!"

"Say what? That you'll be a good father?"

"For heaven's sake, shut up or you'll be next," Sherlock said, and raised his injured hand.

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous."

"I am not the ridiculous one, John. Do you hear what you're saying?"

"Of course I…" he sighed. "Well, I admit it sounds a bit…uncharacteristic, but-"

"_Completely_ uncharacteristic!"

John raised his voice and continued. "But you married Molly, and you're a good husband. You said once yourself _that_ was uncharacteristic."

"Yes, but as I said, that was an unavoidable consequence to the illogical phenomenon of my forming an attachment with her that can only be described as love. Sentiment is a foolish thing; and marriage inhibits logic—I have said so before and I still do, but there was no avoiding the fact that I could not continue living satisfactorily without Molly Holmes as my wife. Sacrifices are to be made. This is different, John. I do not need a baby! I do not want a baby, and I cannot spare any more sentiment on a child lest it impede my work!"

"Do you know you can be unintentionally romantic and offensive at the same time?"

"I can't have a son, John. Can you imagine what it would turn out like?"

"…A son?"

"Oh, God."

Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips, turned around and paced away from John.

"What?"

"A son, John!" He whirled around and waved his hands (still pressed together) at John, panicked. "What if it's a _boy_?"

"Sherlock…"

"_Ohh_, God, what if it's a _girl_?"

"Sherlock."

"Why do I feel nauseous?"

"Sherlock, maybe you should sit down," John gestured toward a bench.

Sherlock started pacing. "A girl John, a tiny female human. Twenty _years_. Or more, who knows?"

"Sherlock."

"This can't happen, John."

John nearly smiled, but refrained, unsure of the consequences. "This is real, Sherlock, this is happening."

"Of course it is, don't be silly. My senses are all too acute for me to be dreaming, trust me." He raised his bloodied hand again. "I am never so illogical to ignore reality, John. No, this can't happen."

"What?"

"She cannot have a child. She must not get pregnant; she must not have a child. But she did. She _did_, John! Where is the solution?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock. Have you talked with Molly about this?"

"No, of course not."

"What do you mean? She's the one who told you she was pregnant."

"Yes!" said Sherlock. "Twenty minutes ago."

"What does that…hold on, I'm getting a call…" He dug out his mobile. "It's Mary, I'm going to see if she's alright."

Sherlock jumped onto a bench and squatted there, fingers pressed to lips.

"Mary?"

The voice on the other end was meek. "John, hello, erm, it's Molly."

"Molly!"

"Sorry, yeah. It's…I'm at your flat; Mary let me use your phone. She said you'd gone out."

"No need to apologize, Molly."

"Well, erm, I was wondering…Is Sherlock there? I mean, is he with you? He, er, he went out also and he didn't say where he was going. I'm a little worried."

"Yes, he's here, Molly. He's fine."

He could hear her let out her breath. "Thank God. Erm…are you on a case?"

"A case? Er, no, there's no case."

"Oh. Is he…" Molly hesitated. "Is he speaking?"

"Speaking? Yes, of course. As much as always, perhaps more."

"I see. Then…he's told you?"

"The news? Yes, he's told me. Congratu…(a glance at Sherlock) I'm very happy for you."

The line was quiet a moment. "Is he?"

"Is he what?"

"Is he happy?"

"Molly, what exactly happened when you told him?"

"I don't know," she said, and he heard a little sniffle on the other end of the line. With his eyes, John asked Sherlock what he had gotten him into. "He came into the flat this morning with the milk and he asked me what's wrong—you know how he is; he always notices when something is different—so I told him, and he just looked at me for such a long time and then he left. He didn't say a word, just left the milk on the stairs."

John sighed. "Yes, well that would explain it."

"Explain what?"

Sherlock stood up then, and started walking briskly.

"Where are you going?" John called, and then realized he still had the phone up to his face.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air and yelled, "I don't _know!_"

Molly's voice chirped from the phone, "Going? Going where?"

John started after him. "Listen, Molly, I'm going to take Sherlock to the hospital. He's injured his hand, it's nothing serious. We'll get him fixed up then I'll take him back to my flat. We'll see you then. Would you tell Mary to put the tea on?"

"Sure. Okay. Erm, thank you, John."

"And Molly? If I were you, I wouldn't worry. I think…for Sherlock, he's handling the news well."

This elicited a protest from the man ten meters ahead of John: "I am NOT! I am not handling anything well! There is nothing to be handled. I will decide for myself how I am handling things, thank you!"

Molly paused a moment, then said, "Right. Thanks John."


End file.
